One Magic Night
by ephemereal
Summary: Holiday special.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic is in place of my normal holiday shorts. It's a show fic, spanning from the day of Angel's funeral to the New Year's after the end of the show. I hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and could we maybe get some other authors doing holiday pieces? Just shorts? I'd love you forever…

And thank you to Broadwaystar2b for lending me her Carols for a Cure CD which totally put me in the mood to write this.

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Chapter 1 –Halloween

(Mark)

The afternoon is unseasonably hot, and the gorgeous spring-like morning air gives way to humidity and oppressive heat. I'm too depressed to go and try to catch up with Collins and Benny after leaving my message with the Buzzline agents, so I head back to the loft instead, still half-hoping that Roger will have had second thoughts and gone home.

I catch my breath for a moment as I turn my key in the lock and open the door, wishing for a miracle. The lot is empty. I force myself to shrug and downplay the reality of it to myself, acting the part of the strong one for the sake of an imaginary audience. I turn on the lights even though there's plenty of sunlight streaming in through the windows, and put on a pot of coffee, telling myself it's still early morning and Roger's spending the night down at Mimi's. He should be back in a few hours, I continue in my mind, knowing it's a lie. Part of me knows that by letting Roger go in such an emotional state is putting his life in danger. But there was no stopping him. I'll be lucky to ever see my best friend again.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a sip, wincing at the bitterness of it. I search through the refrigerator for a moment, looking for milk, but the only carton on the shelf expired two days ago. I pick it up and sniff it cautiously, but my nose is immediately assaulted with the stench of spoilage. I pull it out and dump it down the sink, then pour out my coffee as well, my appetite gone. I go into the living room, but the sight of Roger's guitar case lying open and empty on the floor makes me forget my purpose. I pick it up delicately and carry it into Roger's empty room.

The sheets are torn off the bed, lying on the floor like deflated spirits. The closet and drawers are all still open, gaping and dark and empty, little pieces of trash still stuffed in corners, some of Mimi's clothes on the floor of the closet.

I put the guitar case down on the chair where Roger normally keeps it and begin shutting the drawers. I tell myself that if I can hide the evidence of his hasty departure, it won't have happened. I pick the sheets up off the floor and begin carefully making the bed.

There's a knock at the door just as I'm finishing up. My heart beats faster as I go into the other room, but I know that it's likely only Benny, coming to gloat. I open the door to find Mimi standing on the doorstep, a dirty duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

"I'm leaving," she mutters before I can come up with anything to say. "I just came to get my things."

She pushes past me and goes into the loft, her eyes on the floor.

"Whoa, whoa," I call, rushing after her. "What happened?"

"Benny wants me out," she says, so quietly that I almost wonder if I've heard correctly.

"Well wait," I say, taking her bag and steering her over to the couch. "He can't do that, can he?"

Mimi pulls the tie out of her long hair and shakes it out, grabbing a strand and wrapping it around her fingers nervously.

"Yes he can." Her voice sounds sad, defeated. Suddenly I want to strangle Roger and Benny both. I hate it when people fight. Especially when no one's at any particular fault that can be fixed.

"No he can't," I insist. "If you're paying the rent, there's no way he can make you leave. It's not legal, Joanne can-"

"I'm not," she interrupts.

"What?"

"I'm not paying the rent. I haven't for months."

"Oh." The reality of what Mimi's just said hits me like a splash of cold water. I should have known, I think. I don't want to know any more, but I can't just let her leave with no money and nowhere to go.

"So then…how have you been…"

Mimi sighs.

"I've been paying. Just not…not with money. Today after—what happened, I told him that that would have to stop. But I—I lost my job last week and Benny—he won't give me time to get some."

"So he's just throwing you out?" I ask. I know Benny's been making low blows lately, but I can't believe he'd go this far. Mimi shakes her head.

"No, he…he wants me to go to rehab. He says he'll pay for that but I—I can't do that. I want to get clean but I can't…he says if I don't, I have to get out. So I'm getting out."

Mimi starts to get up, but I stop her with a hand on her shoulder and sit down beside her.

"Wait. Don't go."

"Why, Mark?" she asks, starting to cry. "You're the last person who should care what happens to me."

"Mimi-"

"I'm leaving, Mark."

"You can't," I say, unable to help myself. I don't particularly want her to stay, but at the same time, I can't bear any more guilt over letting my friends go.

"Mark, I can't keep going on with Benny like this. He wants me out. And I can't go to rehab. I'm leaving. I'll get another job somewhere."

"Mimi, why not?"

"What?" she asks, looking confused.

"Why not go to rehab? I mean, I know it's not an easy decision to make, but Roger—"

"I _can't_," she says emphatically.

"Why?" I press, not sure why it bothers me so much.

"I…I'm sick, Mark," she says at last.

I sigh again. I should've known this, too, I tell myself. I need to stop denying everything.

"I need to get clean," she continues, "but I just can't…I can't stand to think that if I go to rehab I might not get out."

"Stay here," I blurt, unable to help myself.

Mimi looks at me hard, her dark brown eyes filled with guilt.

"You don't want to do that," she says quietly.

"Yes I do," I insist, convincing myself at the same time. "Just until you have a chance to get back on your feet. Come on, it's the least I can do."

Mimi looks doubtful, but she nods slowly after a moment.

"All right. Just for now."

She picks up her duffel bag and heads into Roger's old room.

Strange, I think, how I've already stopped thinking of it as his.

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Review please! 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 (Roger)

The strange grinding noise starts near the end of my fourth day of driving. By now I'm sore from sleeping curled up in the back seat, starved from eating nothing but 99 cent fast food meals, and sick as hell from everything. I try to ignore it for as long as possible, but eventually I can't ignore the fact that the car is slowing down no matter how hard I step on the gas. By now the noise is loud enough that I'm starting to worry the thing is going to burn up or explode.

I stop for a minute, get out, lift the hood up, peer inside. Who am I kidding. I don't know shit about mechanics. I was always the musician in high school. While the rest of my class was going to football games and watching monster truck rallies on TV, I was working my ass off at the local McDonalds and saving every penny for the red Fender glinting at me in the window of the music store I passed every day on the way home from school. I sigh, slam the hood shut, and get back in the car. Now the damned thing won't even start.

"Fuck," I mutter, then grab my jacket off the seat back and get out of the car again. The key gets stuck as I attempt to lock the door, and it takes me nearly ten minutes of twisting it around before it finally pops out.

It's early November, but it's starting to get really cold. I can see my breath even in the quickly fading light as I make my way along with side of the winding small town road my car has picked to break down on. It'll be just my luck if there's nothing around for miles.

After about twenty minutes I stumble upon a small gas station and practically cry with relief. The sign on the door proudly proclaims "Closed", but the lights are still on and I can see people inside. I go up to the clear glass door and knock on it. A girl comes over and points irritably at the sign hanging in the door. She's dressed in torn jeans and a black tanktop, no jacket despite the cold. Her short red hair looks like it's been styled with the grease from the cars she apparently works on—it sticks straight up at odd angles. I ignore the annoyance in her expression and motion for her to come out. She shakes her head and glares at me, but then undoes the chain lock and comes out.

"What." It's not a question, it's a statement.

"My car…it…died?" I say lamely, half tempted to simply go back and curl up in the back seat for the night.

The girl rolls her eyes at me.

"Well, obviously. You wouldn't be here if it hadn't."

I nod. The last thing I want to do is pick a fight with this girl. I don't have the energy for a fight right now.

"So where is this dead car?"

"Umm…I'm not sure," I say, realizing that it's true. I've forgotten to look for landmarks on my way here, and now it's so dark I'm not sure I could find my way back if I tried. "About twenty minutes up that road." I point. The girl shakes her head at me.

"What, did you run out of gas?"

"No!" I say indignantly. How dumb does this girl think I am?

She nods slowly, as though trying to decide whether to help or slam the glass door in my face and leave me out here to freeze my ass off all night.

"So are you going to help?" I ask impatiently.

"We're closed," she says, her eyes challenging me. "But maybe I'll make an exception. This time."

"So…then…"

She gestures bossily to an old battered black van that's parked beside one of the gas pumps. We walk over and I get in. The interior smells of beer and old leather. It's so powerful it nearly makes me sick.

It takes us fifteen minutes and several wrong turns to find my car. We don't talk on the way there except for me to give directions and get yelled at when they turn out to be wrong.

"Stay here," the girl orders when we pull over beside my car. She gets out and does something to the engine, then gestures for me to join her. "Start it."

I look at her skeptically, but then try the key in the ignition. It starts.

"That simple?" I ask incredulously, earning myself a scathing look in return.

"God," says the girl, "you're a _guy_. How can you possibly be so clueless about cars?"

I shrug.

"This is only temporary. You drive. Follow me back to the station. I'll work on it there."

I obey, and manage to get there in five minutes this time, avoiding all the wrong turns. We get out and the girl begins to examine my car again. I lean against the door and fidget with a loose thread on my jacket.

"So…do you own this place?" I ask, feeling awkward.

She rolls her eyes at me again.

"My dad does. He went home already."

"You live with him?"

She throws a wrench into her tool kit with a bang.

"No! God, do you have to be so nosy?"

"Sorry," I mutter. "Just curious. You know, if I have to be stuck here with you, I might as well know your name."

I realize how rude it sounds the minute the words are out of my mouth, but for some reason, this makes her laugh.

"Sam," she says simply. "You're cute."

The statement gives me a little jolt, but I try to tell myself it's nothing. She probably says this to every guy she sees.

"And you are…" Sam raises an eyebrow at me.

"Oh. I'm Roger." I reach to shake her hand, but she's up to her elbows in grease and shakes her head.

"Traveling?" she asks, grunting as she fiddles with something.

"Yeah," I answer abruptly. "You could say that."

"Running away then," she says, a hint of mischief in her voice.

"Yeah. That too."

Sam slams the hood shut and shakes her head. My heart sinks.

"This can't be fixed. At least not tonight." She wipes her hands on a stained rag and closes up her tool kit. I shiver and pull my jacket closer. Sam starts to walk away, then realizes I'm not following and raises an eyebrow at me.

"You gonna sleep in that car?"

I hadn't thought about that. I have barely enough money to pay for food and gas. A hotel is out. Not to mention the fact that I now have no mode of transportation.

"Well…um…I…" I stammer.

Sam's expression softens as she realizes I'm not joking. She tilts her head toward the black van.

"Come on. You can crash on my couch for tonight."

I shake my head, try to tell her I don't need any favors, but she won't hear of it.

"It's freezing out here, Roger," she insists. "You can't stay. You'll get sick."

I start to cough as she says it, almost as if my body is agreeing with her against my will.

"No," I say, but then I catch sight of her eyes in the late night fluorescent lights of the gas station.

Brown. Dark brown.

Something inside me breaks.

I follow her over to the van and get inside. Anything is better than another night alone.

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Review please!

A/N: There'll be another chapter on Thanksgiving or around that time...the site upgrade forced me to post these closer together than I would have liked.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey guys, sorry this is so depressing but it kind of fits with the plot. And please don't kill me...this is, after all, a show fic, meaning you know what it eventually comes back to...hang in there, I've got some great scenes planned for later.

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Chapter 3 (Mark)

"There are eggs in turkey?" asks Maureen, standing at the counter and watching me separate them into a bowl.

"No," I answer, "but there are eggs in stuffing."

Joanne rolls her eyes.

"Eggs are evil," says Maureen, taking one out of my carton and bashing it against the counter. The egg shatters, dribbling on the floor. Joanne dives for a wash cloth and begins wiping it up.

"They get all messy and spread diseases," continues Maureen as though nothing has happened. "And how can you eat them anyway? It's like a chicken's period!"

"Who's got their period?" asks Mimi, coming in from the bedroom, still dressed in an old t-shirt and sweat pants, though it's well after noon.

"No one," says Joanne wearily.

"The chicken," says Maureen at the same time.

"Chicken?" asks Mimi distractedly, looking into the refrigerator. I mentally cross my fingers that she comes back with food—she's barely eaten in the month since Roger left.

"The chicken that's in the turkey!" says Maureen proudly.

Mimi shuts the refrigerator absently, goes into the living room and stands in front of the window.

Joanne gets up from cleaning the floor and gives Maureen a look.

"I have a feeling someone's been sampling the champagne a little early."

Maureen bursts into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

"Oh my god," breathes Joanne in exasperation. Maureen flicks a dishtowel at her.

I shake my head and go into the other room, leaving them to duke it out by themselves and hoping they won't ruin the turkey. By this point, though, I'm a little beyond caring.

I go into the living room and stand behind Mimi, who's still looking out the window. It's a gray day outside, not raining so much as misting, but it's more than enough to make everything feel cold, dead, and damp.

"You okay?" I ask softly, figuring there's no need to bring Maureen and Joanne in on this.

Mimi jumps a little, but doesn't turn away. Then I see what she's looking at. A battered black car is coasting down the street, going slowly in the bad weather. For a minute I think it's going to turn in, stop in front of our building, but then it keeps going, and I start to breathe again.

"I'm sorry," I mutter.

She turns and looks at me after a moment, her eyes empty.

"You thought so too?"

I nod slowly.

"So I'm not crazy then."

I force a smile.

"Maybe we both are."

* * *

(Roger)

The house smells funny when I walk inside. At first I'm so zoned out that I wonder if I somehow still have windshield washing fluid all over me.

Much as I'm grateful to Sam for getting me the job, it's absolutely exhausting, and even the sofa at her small house is beginning to feel like a featherbed.

"Hello?" I call, knowing Sam will be wondering where I've been.

I normally come straight home from work, but today I decided to take a walk to the little park nearby and try to work on my song. Somehow it only made me miss home more.

I tell myself to give it up, that I can never go back, that there's nothing for me there and I'm happy here with Sam…but secretly I can't stop counting the days until my car is fixed and I can be back on the road again.

I walk into the living room and suddenly realize what the smell is. Food. A real Thanksgiving dinner, turkey and all, laid out by candlelight on the coffee table. Sam is seated, grinning, on the sofa I've been using as a bed for the past month, wearing a low-cut black dress and long dangling earrings.

My heart skips a beat, then sends my stomach into sickening flip flops as I realize what I've gotten myself into.

"Wow," I breathe, sitting down beside her. "I've never seen you…you look…wow."

Sam cocks her head at me, grinning.

"Finish your sentences. Is that a good wow or a bad wow?"

"A…good wow?" I stammer, then make up my mind. "A very good wow. You cooked all this? I didn't know you could cook."

She blushes, looks at the ground.

"No…but…I'm a damn good caller for takeout."

I laugh at that.

"It looks good," I say lamely.

Sam raises and eyebrow at me.

"You wanna try some?"

She spears a piece of turkey on a fork and holds it up to my lips. I bite down on it, feeling strangely like a little kid. I can tell it is good, but somehow to me it only tastes like sand. I force myself to swallow.

"Delicious," I choke.

Sam looks at me for a moment, then shakes her head a little.

"You miss home?" she asks suddenly.

I choke, and spend several minutes coughing before I can talk again.

"No," I finally manage.

Sam narrows her eyes at me, not completely convinced.

"You don't miss anyone there?"

"No!" I say, more forcefully than I'd meant to.

Sam smiles, apparently convinced.

"Good."

She leans forward and brushes her lips against mine.

* * *

(Mark)

"So," I say, as we finally all sit down around the aluminum folding table in the living room.

The turkey is cooked, though a little blackened, thanks to Maureen tampering with the timer. There's a pumpkin pie from the Food Emporium that Joanne ran out and bought at the last minute, and a rather wilted looking bunch of flowers in the middle of the table. The champagne is already gone.

"What a lovely dinner," I say, trying and failing to sound enthusiastic.

Everyone nods. No one says anything about the fact that Roger and Collins are both missing. Not to mention Angel.

"So, who wants to serve?"

No one moves.

"All right then," I say, still trying to sound festive, "how about we say what we're thankful for first?"

"Fine," says Maureen, giggling.

"Would you like to go first?" I ask, hoping that maybe she can spark some life into the others.

"Alcohol," says Maureen, hiccupping.

Joanne shovels turkey onto Maureen's plate.

"Eat," she commands. "I do not need to deal with you passing out."

Maureen takes a tiny piece of turkey and makes a big show of chewing it. Joanne rolls her eyes.

"You're next," says Maureen, her mouth still full.

"Fine," says Joanne. "Good food. And a job."

Everyone turns to me and I realize I'm next. I think for a moment, then give my standard response.

"Friendship."

I turn to Mimi, who's sitting staring blankly at her plate. She looks up at me after a moment, starts to say something, then pushes her chair back and walks away from the table. Silently, we all watch her go into Roger's old room and close the door.

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Happy Thanksgiving! Review please! 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 (Mark)

The door to Mimi's room is closed when I get back from work. Normally I wouldn't do anything to bother her, but after last night, I'm not sure I like the idea of her being alone in the loft all day. I go over to the door and knock softly on it, not sure whether or not I want her to know that I'm checking up on her.

There's no answer.

I knock again, barely loud enough to be heard even from my side of the door this time.

Nothing.

Very slowly, I turn the doorknob, waiting for an outburst. When I don't get one, I open the door a crack and stick my head in.

Mimi's sitting on the bed, her back to me, looking at something on her lap. I can't see from this angle, but I don't dare get any closer and she's obviously so caught up in whatever it is she's doing that she didn't hear me knock. I decide just to wait.

I stand there for what seems like hours, sure that my heart is beating so loudly it's going to give me away. Memories come flooding back from years ago. Waiting up until dawn for Roger to come home, getting back from work and finding him passed out in the bathroom. Too many fights for me to count.

Mimi holds something up to the light, looking at it as though it's some alien object. Then I see what it is. A needle.

I catch my breath and she turns, too quickly for me to get out of sight. The needle falls from her fingers as she stares at me in shock.

"Mark! What the hell are you doing?"

I swallow hard, my voice sticking in my throat. This can't be happening, I don't want this to be happening, I can't take another fight right now.

"I—I wanted to make sure…you were okay," I stammer. "Last night you seemed so…I don't know…I thought you might be thinking about…"

"Get the hell out!" she yells, and suddenly I'm angry.

"Well, obviously you aren't!" I shout back at her.

"What?"

"Aren't okay! You said you wanted to get clean. I let you stay here so you could do that. And now you go back on your word. Of course. I should've expected it by now."

Mimi looks as if she's just been slapped. I regret it the minute the words are out of my mouth, but somehow I can't bring myself to apologize. I'm just too angry. About Angel. About Roger. About this. It's just too much.

Mimi squares her shoulders, deliberately looks me in the eye. I can see that she's shaking under it all.

"Fine," she says, her voice completely flat. "If you don't want me here anymore, then I'll leave. If you recall, that was my plan in the first place. I guess it just took me an extra long time to pick up my baggage since there's so damn much of it."

She pulls the duffel back out of the back of her closet.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I just came to get my things."

I leave silently.

* * *

(Roger)

It's a perfect, beautiful day in the park. It's crisp and windy, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. The wind makes whitecaps on the lake, churning the water as if it's soup being stirred by a giant somewhere too high up for me to see. And it's quiet, too. Quiet all except for the sounds of birds as they dive in and out of the cattails, looking for food.

There's nowhere like this in the city. Right now it feels like the most beautiful, lonely place I've ever seen.

I walk all the way out on the dock and put my guitar case down on the little bench there. I walk to the edge of the pier and look down at the swirling dark blue water. A part of me wants to just keep walking, let the water finish off the mess my life has turned into in the past three years.

But then would anyone know? Would the others find out? Would they even care?

Somehow I can't bear the thought of never going back, never knowing what they've been thinking these past few weeks. As much as I've tried to convince myself that I can't go back, I know I'll have to eventually. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. I hope so. I don't see how anyone would want me back at this point.

I sit down on the bench and take out my guitar, play the familiar notes of Musetta's Waltz, remembering my mother taking me to the theatre all those years ago. When she still did things with me. When she still cared what happened to me. Before I became the big Davis Family Failure.

I try other notes, too, and other chords, but somehow they don't sound as true, as finished. Everything sounds dull. Reused. Maybe that's what's wrong with this world. We've run out of art. Everything's been done before and so no one really bothers with anything original. After all, why should they when they can just take some doped up version of another artist's piece, call it their own, and get good money for it?

The sound of footsteps makes me jump. I don't like the idea of other people invading my private space, even if it is a public park. I turn around and look. A young couple is making their way down the peer. They have their arms around each other and are gazing into each other's eyes like the rest of the world doesn't even exist.

My stomach churns dangerously. Quickly, I close up my guitar case and stand up. As the girl passes me, she gives me a look.

Brown eyes. Dark brown. Or am I seeing things? I claw at my eyes with one hand until they tear. It's haunting me. I can't take this much longer.

As I turn to make my way back to Sam's little house, I catch a glimpse of the couple sitting on the bench that was mine a few seconds ago. They're curled up in each other's arms.

Perfectly happy.

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Review please! 


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This gets kinda disturbing...sorry if that bothers you. Also, I'm sorry there aren't divisions in this decided to be evil and not let me put them in.

Chapter 5

(Mimi)

A cold front blows in the first week of December.

Of course it would. Naturally. It's been warm all season, but now of course, now that I have no place to stay, it gets cold.

I sit in the park and keep The Man company, making sure to hide whenever I see Mark coming home, on his way home from work or wherever it is that he goes now.

"My star customer," The Man says, running his fingers through my hair. "Stay on that bench as long as you like. You're a hell of a lot easier to look at than the rest of this fucking filthy city."

He laughs, displaying a set of horribly yellowed and cracked teeth.

My stomach turns, threatening to embarrass me, but I force myself to smile back.

The Man would be angry if he knew how much I hated him.

And fuck it, I need him too much for him to be angry.

_You're thinking like a fucking teenager with her first crush, Mimi, _I tell myself. But I know it's not him. Could never be him. It's what he has to offer.

I shiver, and start to go in my coat pocket for money, then stop myself. I need to get clean, I tell myself over and over again. But it's so cold it hurts to breathe, and my head is pounding.

The entire world looks gray.

_Soon, _I tell myself. _I'll do it soon. I just can't…not right now._

I get up and walk over to The Man. He smiles at me, that sickening cracked smile.

"I know what you want," he says softly. "I bet I have just the thing."

I reach into my pockets for money. My heart skips a beat. There's nothing there.

"I—I don't—someone must have stolen it while I was asleep," I stammer, realizing I don't know whether I spent the last of it or if it was stolen.

The Man just keeps on smiling.

"That's all right, love." He puts a hand on my waist. I resist the urge to kick him. "You can pay me in other ways."

He leans in and kisses me. I swallow, tasting bile at the back of my throat.

I've done this so many times.

Why do I never get used to it?

(Mark)

"Mark!"

Someone starts banging on the door. I try to ignore it and put on my headphones, forcing myself to concentrate on the clip I'm editing. I can still hear the noise.

The banging gets louder, and I start to worry that they're going to break down the door. Which I can't afford to fix right now.

I get up and go to the door, then stand in the entranceway, trying to work up the courage to actually open it. It's been a week since Mimi left and I haven't seen or heard from her. Only Collins knows what happened, but evidently now he's told the others, because that is definitely Maureen's voice screaming at me from the hallway and I can't think of anything else I might have done to piss her off.

"Mark! Open the God damn door!"

I throw the door open, preparing to yell at her, but what I see makes me lose my conviction. Maureen, Joanne, and Collins are standing out in the hall, looking at me none too happily.

"Hi?" I say lamely.

"Mark," says Collins gently. "We need to talk."

"Okay," I say cautiously, ushering them all inside. Maureen sits on the aluminum folding table, Joanne on the couch. Collins stands a few feet away from me. It's the first time I've seen him since the day of the funeral.

"What?" I snap.

"Mark—"

"Look, I know I fucked up, okay?"

"Mark—"

"I'm not Roger, you know. I'm not clueless." And then of course I feel terrible the moment I've said it. There's a moment of awkward silence.

"Right now you're acting like it," says Maureen at last.

I go over and sit at the far end of the couch.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just…got mad."

Collins comes over and stands beside the couch, leaning a little on the back of it.

"No one's saying this is easy. Or that it's going to be. But we can't just…stop trying. All we have is each other. If we lose that, we're nothing."

"I know," I say again. "I know. I just…don't know what to do. I got mad, and then I let her leave and…I wouldn't even know where to start looking. I don't know her like Roger did." They all look at me strangely. "Does." I add belatedly.

"Well, we have to start somewhere," says Maureen. "You know she didn't have any money."

"And if she did," says Joanne, "she wouldn't be spending it on…anything useful."

"So…" says Collins thoughtfully. "Start with the park?"

"Already tried it," I say.

"I thought you hadn't looked for her at all," says Joanne.

"Well…not really," I admit. "But I look every time I go by on my way home."

"Doesn't matter," Collins decides. "We're going to the park and we're going to ask around. And we're not coming back until we know something."

(Roger)

It's the middle of the night by the time I get home, but I can still see a light coming from under Sam's door. Again. It's there every night. The light flickers a little, dims for a moment, then brightens again, and I realize suddenly that it's not coming from a lamp. It has to be either a flashlight or a candle.

I lie down on the couch and tell myself to ignore it, not to risk getting too involved. Ever since Thanksgiving, Sam's been pushing. I grab a pillow and hug it to my chest, trying not to wonder what's going on at home. Which isn't home anymore.

I shake my head at my own muddled thoughts and sit up. The light's still there.

"Sam?" I call. I almost don't want to know what she's doing in there.

There's not answer. I get up and go over to the door, knock on it.

"Sam?" I call again.

Still no answer. Suddenly I have a bad feeling about this. Part of me wants to just go back to bed and forget about it for another few hours, find out what's happened in the morning. But the other part of me, the lonely part, wants nothing more than to just go in there and fall asleep next to someone.

"Sam?" I call a third time.

Nothing.

Slowly, quietly, I open the door, waiting for some kind of explosion, something telling me that what I'm doing is wrong.

Sam's sitting on the bed, her back to me. Four candles are sitting on her desk, lit, but slowly burning down.

"Sam?" I say softly.

She turns around and suddenly bursts into laughter at the sight of me. For a moment I think that I've done something wrong, that I'm not thinking straight. But then I see her eyes, shining in the candle light.

Big, brown, and completely empty.

I can't help myself. I turn and run, stopping only to grab my old acoustic guitar on my way out.

I've seen that look too many times. Far too many times.

I go out the door, not even stopping to get my jacket, and just keep going.

It starts to snow just a little as I run, and the coldness of the air makes my chest burn. I start to cough, but I don't even care. I just keep going.

By the time I reach the gas station, I can't feel my toes and the snow is falling so thick it's getting hard to see. I stumble into the parking lot. It's deserted. My old car sits off to the side, not even under the overhang of the building.

I fumble in my pocket for the keys, deciding to chance it.

I get in and thrust the keys into the ignition. It starts. And keeps going.

I swallow against the acid in my throat. She lied. Told me it was still broken so I wouldn't leave.

I step on the gas and drive until I can't drive anymore, then pull over on the side of the road and stretch out in the back seat. It's freezing.

One image is burned into my mind, haunting me as I try to sleep.

Brown eyes. Empty brown eyes.

And suddenly I know what I have to do.

I sit up and lunge for my guitar in the front seat, playing until I can't feel my fingers anymore in the cold. The pain feels good. At least it's not numbness anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 (Roger)

I decide to stop for something to eat at a little roadside diner on my second morning straight of driving. I have a few dollars left over from my short-lived job at the gas station. Enough to get something cheap.

The whole place smells like bad coffee and soggy biscuits.

I sit down at the counter next to two men who look like they must be regulars. Greasy hair, shirts in shreds, bellies hanging over ancient-looking belts.

A waitress behind the counter smiles at me as she pulls a pan of biscuits out of the oven. They haven't risen properly. Her shirt is so low-cut that when she leans over, I can see everything.

Suddenly I'm not very hungry anymore, but I don't have the heart to leave.

"So," says one of the men beside me to his companion. "You hear about Vick?"

The other man grunts.

"What about him?"

"He got arrested."

The other man chuckles. It's not a nice sound.

"Again?" says the second man. "What the hell for?"

"Went around the neighborhood and stole all the baby Jesuses out of the nativity scenes."

The second man laughs even harder than that, spewing bits of hash browns all over the counter.

"Is that a word?" says the second man, after he's recovered from his sudden bout of laughter. "Jesuses?"

"Well what the hell else would it be?" snaps the first man. "Jesi?"

"I think it's Jesu," says the second man. "You know like the song?"

"God, you're so…superfluous sometimes!" says the first man.

The second man laughs again, coughing this time.

"I don't think that's the right word."

"Fuck you!"

I turn away from them and try to catch the waitress's attention. She comes over readily and grins at me, leaning forward almost intentionally so I can see down her shirt.

"What can I get you this morning?" she asks, too sweetly.

"Uh…you got anything for a couple of dollars?" I ask, suddenly realizing how ridiculous I sound.

She laughs, then smiles sympathetically at me.

"Not really…but I could give you some day-old biscuits."

I shrug. It doesn't really matter to me anymore.

A moment later she comes back with a plate bearing two of the saddest looking biscuits I've ever seen. I eat them quickly, trying not to taste. Not that there's much there to taste anyway.

"How much?" I ask the waitress, who's still staring at me.

She waves me away.

"Oh, keep it, keep it if it's all you've got."

She looks as though she's about to say something else, but just then the door opens, letting in a blast of frigid air. I turn and look instinctively.

A girl with dark curly hair and the rattiest looking coat I've ever seen stands there in the doorway, shivering. For a moment, my heart speeds up.

I turn and run out the door.

* * *

(Mimi)

Sometimes at night I wonder if I'm insane.

I lie awake and look at all the colored lights and everything just seems so…pointless.

I watch the people hurrying home from parties, or from delayed Christmas shopping, thick coats and huge bags in their arms.

Arguing. All of them. Arguing. Pushing. Shoving. Clawing at each other. Survival of the fittest.

Sometimes I don't even want to live anymore. But I'm too afraid to die.

Afraid of going on, afraid of giving up.

Every day is another 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, 86,400 seconds.

Sometimes at night I think I can hear a clock ticking. And then I wonder if this is all real, or if it's some bizarre dream I'm having. Or if it's someone else's bizarre dream. And I start wondering if I even exist at all, or if I'm maybe already dead. And if it matters.

And then The Man comes.

And I can't bear to think anymore.

* * *

(Roger)

It's dark when I make it back to the loft. All the lights are off in the building, and for a moment I'm afraid to go up. But I can't wait any longer. I get to the door and it's locked; I fumble for my key, can't find it. I knock, harder and harder as the seconds go by.

At last, Mark opens the door. He's so pale it's frightening.

"Roger!" Mark gasps.

He pulls me inside, closes the door, and double locks it.

"Mark," I gasp, "Mark, where—"

"Gone," says Mark, as though reading my mind. "She's gone."

"What?"

I grab him by the shoulders. I have to know.

"She—I got mad and she—"

"What, Mark!" I shout. "Tell me!"

Suddenly it's too hot. Much too hot. I feel like my head's going to explode.

"She left…ran away…I haven't…I haven't seen her in two weeks!"

Mark pulls away and takes a step back, looking at me like he thinks I'm going to hurt him.

Maybe I was, I realize, and hate myself for it.

"So…so then…we have to find her."

I turn and start for the door again, but Mark jumps in my way.

"Roger, my God! Stop for a minute."

He takes a deep breath, grabs me by the arm, and drags me over to the couch, forcing me to sit down.

"Where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter," I mutter, getting up again. "It's snowing. We have to find her. It's too cold out there."

"Roger!" Mark jumps in my path again. "You look like hell. You need to just get better. We've looked already. We've done all we can."

"Then I'll do better!"

I push him aside and run out the door.

* * *

Review please! Guess what's next, guys… 


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: This is the first half of the Christmas Eve chapter. I considered doing it all as one, since every one of you knows what's going to happen, but it was just too darn long. The next chapter will be up tomorrow morning, so check back then. Yes, I know I changed a few things from the way they are in the show—call it artistic license. I don't think there's anything too big for you guys too accept. Also, because this is the first scene I've done that's also in the show, it's a weird blend of lyrics and my own dialogue. I hope you like it. For anyone who's been reading my screenplay, I want thought as to whether or not some of this should be kept for the finale scene.

* * *

Chapter 7--Christmas Eve

(Roger)

Mark has his camera out again. Before I left, he hadn't used it in months. And now, suddenly, he's decided that his film is finished. Just like that. Done.

"I want to capture things the way they were," he says. "The good times."

"So why are you filming now?" I ask, as he directs the lens at me and begins adjusting settings.

I go over to the sofa, sit down, and pick up my guitar. Mark follows me with his camera. His third eye, Maureen used to say.

"Because I need one more piece," says Mark distractedly. "The finale."

"And I'm your finale…why?" I start tuning the old red Fender.

"Because you are," says Mark. "In a way, it's all about you. I never would've started this monster of a project if it wasn't for you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I don't know why, but I'm not quite sure I want to be responsible for Mark's project. It means too much to him. I don't trust myself to be worth that much.

"When you decided you were going to get clean, to start over, I decided that I needed to start over too. I've never gotten anywhere before; I thought that maybe if I tried something completely different, maybe it would be better. And that's why you're the finale. Because things are getting better again. And it starts with you."

"How do I—"

"Just shut up," says Mark, and flips the record switch on.

I shut my mouth and go back to tuning the guitar.

"December 24, 10 PM, Eastern Standard Time," Mark narrates. "First shot Roger, with the Fender guitar he just got out of hock. When he sold the car which took him away and back."

Mark motions to me to say something.

"I found my song," I say lamely, not wanting to disappoint.

"Now if he could just find Mimi," says Mark, lowering his voice as though I'm not a few feet away.

"I tried!" I yell at the camera, getting angry despite myself. "You know I tried!"

Mark shrugs, then switches his camera off. He takes it over to the little projector he has set up against the back wall and plugs it in, playing back his most recent footage.

"Zoom in on Mark," he continues to narrate, almost out of habit, as an image of him filming himself in the mirror comes on. "Who's still in the dark."

"But he's got great footage!" I offer. I can't bear to see him looking so upset anymore. At least one of us needs to be happy. And that's not going to be me.

"Which he's cut together," says Mark. I cringe at the sound of him talking about himself in third person still. I'll never get used to it. "To screen tonight."

I laugh, get up, go to the kitchen in search of the bottle of Absolut Mark brought home the other day.

"In honor of Benny's wife. Pulling Benny out of the East Village location."

Mark chuckles.

"No Cyber Studio now."

"I'm crushed," I joke.

"Oh, I knew you were so looking forward to it," says Mark, adjusting some knobs on the projector. The image on the wall goes in and out of focus. Just then there's a loud popping noise, and the power goes out.

"Shit," says Mark. "Of course."

Just then there's a knock on the door. Mark goes to answer it.

"Collins!" I hear him say. There's a little bit of light coming in off the street. I start searching for a candle in the kitchen.

"I wonder how Alison found out about Mimi," I muse, trying to think of something to say to Collins. He must hate me now.

"Maybe a little bird told her," jokes Mark.

"Or an Angel," says Collins, in remarkably good spirits.

I find a couple of old tealights in the kitchen and light them. It's dim light, but it's something. There's light coming in from the buildings next door, too I notice suddenly. So it's just us losing power. Again. Of course. The power in our building just likes to spontaneously desert us.

"I bet they have power downstairs," says Mark, as though reading my mind.

"And Benny's not even the landlord anymore," says Collins, shaking his head. "I suppose some things never do change."

An awkward silence falls in which neither of us knows what to say to Collins, and I got back to searching for that damned bottle of Absolut.

"So," says Mark at last. "Merry Christmas."

"Yeah," says Collins. "You too. Oh, before I forget." He reaches into his jacket pockets and holds out wads of twenty dollar bills to me and Mark.

"Whoa," says Mark. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, where did this come from?"

"Just…a little…opportunity," says Collins nonchalantly.

"Tutoring again?" I ask.

"Negative," says Collins.

"Back at NYU?" Mark guesses.

Collins shakes his head. "No, no, no!" He leans forward and motions for me and Mark to come closer. As if there's anyone else around to hear. "I rewired the ATM at the Food Emporium to provide an honorarium to anyone with the code."

"The code?" asks Mark.

"A-N-G-E-L," says Collins softly. "But you know, I've been thinking that my days of Robin Hooding might soon be over. They're not making as much of an impact as I'd like."

Collins looks at me. I sigh. I know exactly where this is going. Collins' long-lived never-to-be-realized dream of opening a restaurant in Santa Fe to swindle the rich tourists out of their money.

"So, Roger," begins Collins. Predictable, I think to myself.

"Santa Fe never happened," I say before he can get any further. "And besides, you'd miss New York before you could unpack."

I look over at my

Guitar, thinking how glad I am that I got it back in time and don't have to only play my old acoustic anymore.

I look back up and suddenly realize that the others are staring at me. I open my mouth to say something but am cut off by the loud slamming of the stairwell door and what sounds like a woman screaming.

"Mark?" calls the voice, echoing in the sudden silence of the blackout. "Roger! Anyone, _help!"_

* * *

Review please!

Next chapter up tomorrow…


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: All right, guys, this is it. I may yet do a New Year's short, but I'm not sure.

I'm going to try out posting the beginning of an Aida fic I started over the summer...look for that sometime this weekend and let me know if you guys want more.

Thanks for reading, it's been fun!

* * *

Chapter 8-Christmas Eve

(Roger)

My heart goes to my throat. I know that voice.

"Maureen?" calls Mark, opening the door and sticking his head out into the hall.

"It's Mimi! I can't get her up the stairs!"

My heart feels like it's going to explode. Everything starts to move again in slow motion around me, but I'm rooted to the spot. Mark takes one look at me and shakes his head.

"Easy, Rog, you know how much she exaggerates sometimes."

But he doesn't sound convinced. Mark turns and bolts down the hall toward the stairwell but I still can't move. Collins comes over and tries to put a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off, more roughly than I should.

An eternity later, it seems, the door swings open again and Maureen enters followed by Mark, who's carrying Mimi, followed by Joanne. Mark hurries over to the couch and sets Mimi down, then dashes off to the bedroom for blankets.

"She was huddled in the park," Maureen explains, "in the dark. And she was freezing. And begged to come here."

"Over here?" I whisper, trying to understand. After everything I've said, everything I've done—here. "Oh, God."

"Got a light?" Mimi whispers from the couch. "I know you—you're shivering."

And suddenly everything comes back into focus. I rush over and kneel don by the couch, then motion for Maureen to bring one of the candles over from the kitchen.

"She's been living on the street," says Joanne, as if that isn't obvious. I want to slap her. We need help, not more explanations.

"We need some heat," I demand, pressing the back of my hand to Mimi's cheek. Even in the cold, her skin feels like it's on fire.

"I'm shivering," she whispers, as if trying to apologize. She holds out a shaky hand and I grab it with both of mine.

"We can buy some wood," says Mark, holding up the wad of bills Collins brought. "And something to eat."

"It's going to take more than that," says Collins softly.

"I heard that," says Mimi, trying to sit up and collapsing in a fit of coughing.

"Collins will call for a doctor, honey," says Maureen, giving Mimi a reassuring smile, then glaring at Collins. He jumps for the phone.

"Don't waste your money on me," Mimi protests weakly.

Collins attempts to call 911 and immediately gets put on hold.

Mimi starts to shiver again, more violently this time, and suddenly I recognize the symptoms-withdrawal. I know this all too well. Suddenly I can't breathe. We need an ambulance. Now. She's not going to be able to take this. I've heard too many horror stories of people who couldn't.

"I should tell you," Mimi whispers, so softly I can barely hear. I lean closer. "I should tell you, Benny wasn't any—"

"Shh," I cut her off, not wanting to think about that now. "I know. I should tell you why I left, it wasn't 'cause I didn't—"

Mimi shakes her head and me and motions for me to be quiet. She's having a hard time even breathing now.

"I should tell you…" she breaks off, unable to finish the sentence. "I should tell you…I love you."

She collapses back against the couch, completely exhausted, eyes half open.

"Wait," I say, desperate to be able to do something, _anything._ "Wait."

I jump up and grab my old acoustic. There's not time to plug in the electric.

"Hold on, there's something you should hear. It isn't much, but it took all year."

I start to play, feeling utterly useless. But my song is all I have. It's all I've ever had.

_Your eyes_

_As we said our goodbyes_

_Can't get them out of my mind_

_And I find I can't hide from_

_Your eyes_

_The ones that took me by surprise_

_The night you came into my life_

_Where there's moonlight_

_I see your eyes_

_How'd I let you slip away_

_When I'm longing so to hold you_

_Now I'd die for one more day_

'_cause there's something I should _

_Have told you_

_Yes there's something I should have_

_Told you_

_When I looked into your eyes_

_Why does distance make us wise?_

_You were the song all along_

_And before the song dies_

_I should tell you I should tell you_

_I have always loved you_

_You can see it in my eyes_

By the time I've finished, she's completely gone. Everyone's staring at me, their eyes full of tears. I can't take this anymore. I lean forward and bury my face in Mimi's hair.

I'm too late. Of course I'm too late. My whole life I've been just a little too late for everyone and everything. This is it, I think. I'm not starting over, not again. After tonight, it's over.

But then suddenly I think I can feel her breath on my cheek again, a stir of movement against me. I jump back, silently praying with everything I have that I'm not imagining it.

"I jumped over the moon," says Mimi faintly, blinking disorientedly. "A leap of mooooo—" She tries to sit up and almost falls back again.

"She's back!" yelps Joanne, rushing to catch her.

"I was in a tunnel," says Mimi, her voice filled with wonder, "headed for this warm white light. And I _swear_, Angel was there! And she looked GOOD! And she said 'Turn around, girlfriend, and listen to that boy's song.'"

"Oh my God!" cries Maureen, looking starry-eyed.

I motion for Joanne to move, then sit up on the couch and wrap my arms around Mimi from behind. She's drenched in sweat, but her skin is already noticeably cooler.

Good, I think. Thank…whatever.

Mimi turns, looks at me, and grins.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you."

I start to laugh, and suddenly all the emotions I've been fighting for the past month hit me. I'm laughing and crying at the same time and I can't seem to stop.

"Crazy for coming back," I gasp at last. "But _god _I'm glad you did."

Mimi laughs, then leans up and kisses me. Suddenly the power comes back on.

"Look what you guys did," says Maureen jokingly.

Mimi shrugs.

"What can I say? I'm just that good."

Mark's projector has come back on and is playing on the wall above us.

"Hey," says Mark suddenly. "How about we have that screening now?"

Mimi turns in my arms and nods enthusiastically at Mark.

"No day but today."

I grin at that and pull her into my lap. She'll take any excuse to use that old Life Support mantra. But somehow it's never seemed so pertinent as it does tonight.

* * *

Review please. Merry Christmas!


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